The Warden
by Seigio
Summary: She took him and ran, but she couldn't run far enough. Lily goes missing only eight years after the death of Harry's father, leaving him under the care of Donald Morgan. Now 19 and a Warden of the White Council, Harry returns to the Wizarding World, searching for answers.


This was the worst part of his job. In his duty as Warden of the White Council he had grown used to wretchedness, to poverty and all the hidden evils of that beast. He'd travelled to strange and exotic lands, and lay witness to their dark underbellies. He'd climbed the seven thousand steps to Xanadu, he'd bartered in the Alexandrian market, sailed between the Mak'toa islands and proven himself to their guardian.

Nowhere in his travels had been without suffering. This was hardly an accident. The Warden was no tourist. He was judge, jury, and executioner. And suffering breeds crime.

He walked those cursed streets, and they knew him, and they feared him.

Tonight, those cursed streets were paved by cobblestone, wet with English showers. His grey cloak was drawn tight around his shoulders, both shielding him from the downpour and reflecting his authority in this realm.

It was a shanty town by any means, perched on the outskirts of Amesbury, just east of Stonehenge. Caravans and cottages had been lashed together, with a few tents thrown in for good measure. Most notably, a leyline – a sort of river for magical power – ran through the construction, if it could even be called constructed. It had been built by Gypsies and Witches and Queers, and it certainly showed.

They were Talents, most of them. People with just enough magical power to do a palm reading on occasion, or perhaps construct a small trinket - a cursed monkey's paw or a flying carpet. Not a part of the magical community in any real sense, and not a part of the mundane community either. Outcasts, the lot.

They knew only enough to survive. They knew him.

The people of Amesbury hated their neighbors.

"…drove down property values… threatened the safety of children…" as one committee letter had put it. Plus, "…they smell none too good neither."

The authorities had been involved. Bulldozers too. It hadn't worked, the work orders had always been rescinded at the last minute, the police turned back at the doorstep. If they ever turned back at all.

Some of those officers, per local buzz, had been spotted on occasion. But not as they were. They'd looked different, empty and starved. There were talks of drugs, of officers defecting to smoke crack in some seedy den and engage in extramarital sex.

The Warden suspected something more insidious. Thralls. The result of a magical domination of the mind, using the power of life itself to twist and corrupt. Those affected turned into husks, slaves to the will of their master.

He'd seen it before. On sex slaves, on children, on bodyguards who couldn't be trusted.

Thralls were a perversion, a disgusting practice akin to necromancy on the still living. And, most importantly, they were illegal. Which meant they were also his business.

He stopped outside the caravan, nestled amidst a cluster of caravans. There was a light on inside, just visible through the shuttered windows. A single street light stood on this road, casting long shadows.

He knocked, thrice, loud and official.

A few children played in the street still, harassing a large black cat who'd been caught out in the rain. It hissed and yowled, and the children laughed. The noise drew their parents' attention. As soon as they saw him, the children were ushered up the stairs and inside, protesting all the way.

The Warden was used to this.

There was a shuffling inside the caravan, a scratching and a muffled "Coming!" The shuttered blinds were pulled, casting him in light from inside. They snapped shut twice as fast, and did not open again.

The light inside went out.

The Warden knocked again, thrice, loud and official.

And again, louder and more forcefully.

Finally, the door opened, chain firmly in place. With no light inside, the Warden could only vaguely make out the resident. Short, curved, with hair cropped at the shoulders.

"What, what the bloody hell do you want?"

"Lily Potter?" asked the Warden.

"Never heard of her."

He shoved his foot in the door just in time to catch it open. The Warden knew this dance.

"Get your _foot_ out of my door you bastard or I'll scream." She slammed the door again, crushing his foot. She was stronger than she looked.

"Do you really think that would do you any good?" he asked.

"No, but it certainly wouldn't do you any good either." Slam.

"Mrs. Potter…"

"Evans." She said with a slam. "That's Ms. Evans to you, Warden."

"Ms. Evans, then," he said. "I am here on official business, in my full capacity as Warden of the Council. You know full well what that means."

His sword was heavy on his hip.

"Yes, yes, I know my obligation. I also know it doesn't include welcoming you into my home. And it certainly doesn't include you showing up on my bloody doorstep Merlin knows when for who knows what."

"Ms. Evans," he said, eyes narrowed, "it would be remiss to deny the Council's plea for help, especially after all we've done for you. You know the consequences, the consequences you've managed to somehow _avoid_ this far."

She didn't waver in her eye contact. Her eyes locked his, with equal fury. "I also know the obligation. You want my help, you send a bloody letter."

"Unfortunately," he said, dragging the word, "the circumstances of my business precluded the necessary formalities. But I'll remind you, Evans, they are only formalities."

"Formalities you'd do well to observe, Warden."

The Warden felt his temper rising. He had no patience for Warlocks, and Evans, in his book, most certainly counted. While she'd been acquitted, he knew it was only by the _mercy_ of the Council. If he'd had his way, her head would be in a bag, buried outside Edenborough.

He knew she knew his feelings. He also knew she was well aware of the limits of his patience.

They stood there, lips drawn tight, at an impasse.

There was another noise from inside, a whine of rusty hinges. The light turned on in the foyer, giving the Warden a good look at his foe.

Evans looked older than the last time he'd seen her. Stress lines gave her face a serious edge, one that reminded him of his master, so long ago. Gone was the impudent twenty something he'd arrested nearly a decade ago. Now stood a woman in her thirties, her brilliant red hair already showing a streak of gray.

"Mum?" called a voice from inside.

Evans turned to face her son, still putting pressure on the door. "I thought I told you to stay in the room."

"I got scared," he said.

"Get in there now or I'll give you something to be scared of, love."

"How long do I have to be in there? I'm hungry."

"Until I come get you. Get in the room. Now!" There was an edge of authority in her voice, the sound of a woman used to obedience. There was another edge too, though. Concern.

The door within the caravan squeaked shut again, the boy retreating to what was most likely a shared bedroom.

Evans turned again to the Warden, angrier if anything. She knew he had her.

"Ah, yes," he said. "I remember your son."

"You'd be wise to shut the hell up about my child."

"How old is the boy now?" he pressed. "Eight? Or is it nine? He's a big reason they let you off, isn't he? There's always sympathy for an unwed mother."

Her eyes flashed. "That's none of your business, Warden."

"Eight. Terrible age to lose a mother, isn't it? That's about when I lost mine."

"What do you want?"

"May I come in? It's awfully wet out here."

She gave him a long look them, the last remnants of defiance draining from her body. Not from her eyes though. Never from her eyes.

"I'll put the kettle on. If you don't mind, I need to undo the chain." She gave a pointed look at his foot.

"Alright." He moved it.

She shut the door. There was a pause, a debate. Then the chain rattled and fell. The door swung open, the light turned on.

The Warden stepped in, past the threshold. Every home, if it was truly a home filled with love and care, had a threshold. A ward, of sorts, that prevented demons, spirits, vampires, and the like from entering. Wizards, such as the Warden, could cross thresholds with little difficulty. But doing so without an invitation meant leaving a rather sizable chunk of their magic behind.

This threshold was strong. The Warden doubted he'd have been able to do more than a parlor trick if he'd entered without an invitation.

Lamps lit the rather drafty caravan. Furniture was sparse, and the few items were threadbare to say the least. Paintings, more than anything, served as decoration. Photographs too. They littered the place, most featuring the boy throughout the ages. They each moved, laughing or smiling or playing. First day of school, clutching a cat, a first bike ride.

The Warden took a seat on a rather lumpy couch, situated before a ragged and coffee stained table. A few magazines sat cluttered on the table, some with moving covers but most without.

His cloak wasn't wet any longer. No fluid, whether that be blood or water, could maintain a hold on his enchanted garment.

There was a small kitchen attached to the foyer, with a wood-burning stove and a few electrical appliances. Evans was busying herself, bustling around for cups and sugar. It didn't take long, and soon the kettle and Evans were set out before him.

He took his with no sugar, and just a squeeze of lemon. She liked hers sweet.

They sat there for a minute, each sizing the other up. Evans cast periodic glances at the other door in the foyer, the one with her child behind it. Her brow was furrowed, the stress lines coming out.

"Ah," he said, breaking the silence. "I appreciate the cup. Normally I don't get much hospitality."

"I couldn't imagine why."

He laughed, a little cruelly. "Neither can I. Especially with how kind and good-natured most of my suspects are. It's good to catch up with such a… respectful young lady such as yourself."

"Same to you. I don't have miserable old bastards around often enough. Not since the Council helped me out."

"And such a flatterer. It's a wonder you haven't remarried."

That struck a nerve. "Cut the crap, Morgan," she said, putting her cup down with a clatter. "Why are you here?"

Morgan set his own cup down and leaned forward. "When was the last time you spoke to Warden Taylor?"

"A month ago, maybe. Came over to 'review the laws' and harass me. The man's a pig."

"Some respect is in order, Evans. The man endured the Doom of Damocles for you."

She snorted. "The only reason Taylor ever did anything to me was to try and get into my pants."

The Warden nodded carefully, scratching his chin, gray with stubble. "So there was no love between you and the late Warden Taylor?"

"Late? Figured he'd get into something he couldn't handle. Let me guess, I'm a suspect?"

"That's still to be determined. You have a noted history of Dark magic."

"Everything I did I did because I had no choice," Evans protested.

"Regardless, the Council, and myself, have reason to doubt you," Morgan said. "But that's not the only reason I've come. Tell me, what do your people know of the Janely cases?"

"The what?"

"The abductions across the country from September of last year to March of this year. Roughly two mundanes a week, plus a few members of the community. Particularly within Amesbury. Two police officers and a bulldozer sound familiar?"

She paled. "There's been a few attacks around here. You know, every witch is suddenly a prophet, and it's always omen this omen that. I know the Karela family lost their son last week. Some neighborhood boys had to teach the 'gypsy brat' a lesson. Kicked his skull in. Course the constable refuses to even investigate, whole things getting filed as an 'accident.' Roughhousing, boys will be boys, you see. Disgusting."

"I'm not talking about your neighbors. What do your _people_ know?"

"You mean the Ministry?"

Morgan grimaced. It was bad enough they called themselves 'wizards', they also had to establish their own government under the Accords. The Ministry of Magic was a thorn in the side of the White Council, and their aggressive education tactics was threatening the very future of the Councils population.

"Yes," he said.

"I haven't heard anything. I don't get the Prophet; I try and stay far away from that world. Especially after the war…"

"Understandable. I'm going to be upfront with you Evans. I need your help in this investigation. Your personal help."

"No." She stood and paced. "No, absolutely not. First you come barging in at this ungodly hour, threatening me, now you're asking for my help? I'll tell you where you can shove this help. Give me one good reason I should help you after all you've done to me."

"One reason?" Morgan sat back. "Your retrial is coming up. Two months from now you'll be called before the Council."

She stopped her pacing. "Retrial?"

"You are under the Doom of Damocles, together with Warden Taylor. With Taylor dead, the Doom will default unless another Council member steps forward to take it up. You know what happens if the Doom defaults."

"So this is it, huh? This is why you came? Because my execution is coming up, and you want to use me before I'm dead?"

Morgan nodded. "I don't like you Evans. I think you should be dead already for breaking the Second and Fourth Laws. But I need you, and you need me. If you help me in my investigation, this will look good on your retrial. You'll most likely have the Doom lifted. You'll be free, and maintain the protection of the Council."

"And what lot of good that protection is. 'We'll protect you Lily, but wait, we're gonna kill you because some perverted bastard didn't have enough sense to stay alive.'"

"So you understand your condition," Morgan said.

"Yes," Evans said, sitting down, even more drained. "I understand." She looked at the bedroom door, then put her head in her hands. "How do you need my help? I have responsibilities. I have a son. I can't just bugger off and work with you."

"Warden Luccio will care for the boy in the interim."

Her eyebrows rose. "Luccio? The bloody Commander of the Wardens? Why not someone else in the Council? Because the Council doesn't know, of course. They can't, can they? What the hell are you planning Morgan?"

His face remained impassive. She was impudent, careless, and a threat, for sure, but she was also clever. He had to speak carefully.

"I can't tell you yet," Morgan said. "Not until you agree. But let me assure you, the boy will be safe."

She met his eyes. Gods, her eyes were so green. Even meeting his eyes was a challenge. Not many had the courage, or perhaps it was foolishness, to make eye contact with a Wizard. "And what makes you think I'll agree without knowing just what the hell I'm getting into?" she asked.

Morgan maintained the eye contact. Eye contact with a Wizard, capital W, was a risky venture. They say eyes are windows to the soul. A saying based on wisdom of the past. For Wizards, eyes are quite literally windows to the soul. Look long enough, and you'd start a Soul Gaze.

Morgan felt the familiar tug. It didn't take long for the Soul Gaze to start. Foolish woman.

Morgan saw Lily. He Saw her. He knew she Saw him too.

He Saw her in a room. The walls were made of stone, and a draft swept through the building. It looked like a classroom, perhaps in Oxford, but somehow older. There were desks and a blackboard, but those were the only modern comforts. Half the room was dominated by a massive stained glass window. It depicted Abraham and his son.

The roof was collapsing. Big, heavy chunks rained down everywhere, and Morgan flinched when they fell.

Evans stood on one of the desks. She stood like Atlas, holding a massive stone between her shoulders. The stone was heavy, and getting heavier, yet her head was not bowed. The roof was collapsing, and she was holding it up. She was green and red and radiant, and she was pushing back.

There was also a crying, soft and incessant.

It came from beneath the desk Evans stood on. There was a baby there, all swaddled up. A snake, at least twenty feet long, crawled in a circle around the child. Or rather it wasn't a snake, The Warden realized, but an ouroboros. The snake was consuming itself, and in doing so, creeping ever closer to the child.

The Soul Gaze ended then. The Warden blinked slowly as he emerged. Evans emerged with a gasp, falling back in her seat.

"Did you see what you must?" the Warden asked.

"Too much," she croaked.

Morgan felt much the same.

"I'll be waiting at the George Hotel," the Warden said, standing and shrugging on his cloak. "I'll be departing the night after tomorrow. If you decide to take me up on my offer you will meet me outside, at eight pm sharp. Bring the boy and whatever you need. If you aren't there, I hope you understand the consequences."

He turned to leave.

"Morgan," she said hoarsely.

He stopped at the door, but did not turn to face her.

"If anything happens to me, happens on this job, I need you to promise me something."

He said nothing, but stayed still.

"Please, Morgan, promise me. If I get hurt, or if I can't come back, or… or I die, I need you to watch after Harry. He's a very special boy, more than you can understand."

The Warden paused for a very long time. He remembered the ouroboros, creeping ever closer. He wondered what she meant.

"The boy will be looked after," he said finally, reaching for the door.

"No, Morgan. I won't have you pawn him off to some sick fuck on the Council. I know what happens to apprentices. It's slave labor. They won't care about his safety. No, Morgan, promise me you'll look after him. You."

"Why should I?" the Warden asked. "Besides, I'm a Warden of the Council. He'll hardly be safe with me."

"Because you care, Morgan."

The Warden was shocked. He'd seen too much. He'd been on the job too long. He found it hard to care anymore. She'd clearly seen something during the Soul Gaze. Something about him he had himself forgotten. Did he care? Sometimes he liked to imagine he did.

He deliberated. He was certainly asking her for quite a bit. Her safety, her time. Her life. Morgan knew she most likely was doomed either way, through the trial or through the investigation. And though she was a criminal, though he had personally advocated for her execution, he Knew she didn't deserve it.

"What's the boy's name?" Morgan asked.

"Harry. Harry Potter."

"And who is it, what is it that's threatening the child?"

"Monsters. Warlocks. Fate."

Morgan closed his eyes and stepped through the door.

Behind his shoulder he said, "Very well. Should any harm befall you, Lily Evans, I will care for the boy. You have my word."

He closed the door, drew his cloak tight, and stepped out into the rain.


End file.
